


Of Joy that Kills

by chris9065



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Age Difference, Bane/John in later chapters, F/M, John is Nightwing, M/M, Mentions of Bruce Wayne/Selina Kyle, Not Beta Read, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Rating May Change, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-05 01:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4159842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chris9065/pseuds/chris9065
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of it all, after Batman dies saving the city and Bane dies trying to destroy it, John tries to move on. It's made frustratingly difficult when both men turn up alive. Where love is involved, there is a guilt that ruins -- and a joy that kills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first posted fanfic in literally years -- I'm fairly private about the stuff I write. More of a self-indulgent exploration of John Blake's sense of morality.
> 
> Let me know if you're available to beta-read. I've never had luck finding a consistent beta. Rating will go up in later chapters (to account for eventual smut), and Blake/Bane will be in later chapters as well.

“Are you happy here?” Bruce’s voice is soft, and the uncertainty laced within it is unfamiliar and jarring.

 

John brings his eyes away from the book to look up at the other man. There’s a moment where he’s not sure how to answer -- the answer is _yes_ , desperately so, he becomes so overwhelmed with the joy he's so unused to that he’s not sure how to process it. He is happy when Bruce takes him to too-bright charity balls to proudly announce that he is still no longer a bachelor, he is happy when Bruce traces his fingers against his lips in the dim light of the slow weekend mornings, he is happy when they are sitting, just as they are, in the library, quiet but present.

 

He remembers the way Bane’s fingers would flip pages filled with philosophical idealizations, and a cold fear grips his chest.

 

“I’m happy with you,” John answers, and he knows that Bruce is aware of the word change. He knows that Bruce is aware of what it means. “I love you,” he asserts, and Bruce looks like he’s also all-too unused to happiness, a look of vulnerable surprise flitting across his face that is trying to be dampened.

 

John stands and crosses the distance between the two armchairs. Bruce lifts his arms as an invitation, and John sits, curling himself into something small on the man’s chest. His head rests on Bruce’s shoulder, and he closes his eyes. “I love you,” he repeats, and he means it.

 

“Love you, too,” Bruce responds, and it draws happiness from John’s chest, painful and never-ending.

 

* * *

 

John first meets Bruce Wayne when he's sixteen years old. Wayne is something of a legend at the orphanage, spoken about in reverent whispers. Father Reilly permits it, despite the rumors that inevitably form ("I heard he has access to the President's bunker", "He has so many cars that he can use one for each day of the month", "Did you know that he can buy all of Gotham and still have money left over?", and, the most discussed of all, "Bruce Wayne is the Batman"). John thinks it's because they don't have many chances for a role model like Bruce Wayne. Everyone knows orphans don't get those opportunities -- but Wayne gives them the hope they’ll need when they’re pushed out of the system.

 

Wayne strolls into St. Swithin’s on August 23rd, at 2:45 in the afternoon. John isn't the only one who can remember the date -- it's engraved in their minds, all of theirs, even the youngest ones. Wayne rolls up in a car that is out of place on the street with a beautiful woman on his arm and drops the largest donation the church has seen since the Waynes donating were Thomas and Martha.

 

His breath hitches in his throat when Wayne is generally introduced to the group of boys, who're staring at the billionaire with a mix of awe and reverence. There's a smile on Wayne's face -- but it's an edge too wide, an edge too stiff, and John can see through it like crystal. Suddenly, clarity overwhelms him: _Bruce Wayne is the Batman. Bruce Wayne wears the mask._

 

When Wayne goes down the steps back to his car, there's something that compels John to chase after him. He stands on the bottom step in front of the orphanage, heart in his throat when Wayne opens his car door.

 

"Mr. Wayne!" he suddenly calls. He is aware that his voice is high-pitched and young, but it's too late now. Wayne turns, an eyebrow raising. John pauses, not sure of what to say -- he hadn't expected to call out to him, and he definitely didn't expect Wayne to actually turn around. He takes in a steadying breath. "Thank you," he finally says, a bit lamely. "For everything," John adds. _For giving us hope. For protecting Gotham. For looking out for the ones at the bottom. For **everything**_.

 

Wayne stops, his expression opening into surprise. After a moment, he smiles -- really, actually smiles, which is blinding and makes John's heart speed into overdrive -- and steps forward. He's taller than John, even when he's on a step lower, and he ruffles John's mess of dark hair. "You're welcome," he responds, and the sound vibrates in John's chest. John doesn't move for a long time, his hand hovering over the tingling on his scalp, even after Wayne drives around the corner and is long gone.

 

* * *

 

Wayne doesn't become Bruce, not for a long time. Not for twelve years. John is hesitant to use it -- here, in the aftermath of things, after the events of the League of Shadows, after he knows Bruce is alive, after he's mourned his death for a year, after he's put the mask on night after night, and he's still hesitant to use it.

 

Bruce, a dead man resurrected, walks into Wayne Manor-turned-orphanage, kids staring with the same awe that John had when he was sixteen, and John feels the name hammer into his heart.

 

"Mr. Wayne," John decides to say instead. Bruce looks tanned, healthy, happy, but determined. John knows what he's determined to do.

 

"Is Alfred in?" Bruce asks, and John nods.

 

Alfred drops the platter onto the ground and breaks two teacups and gives Bruce an extremely long lecture about recklessness and letting the suit control him and being a damn fool, then gives him a strong hug. Bruce hugs him back, and John has to firmly tell the boys that it's far past the curfew and it's lights out in ten.

 

"Does that apply to all orphans?" Bruce jokes, and John's voice gets stuck in his throat. _Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce._

 

"I'll make an exception for you, Mr. Wayne," John manages to respond.

 

Bruce nods, laughing, and moves across the dining room with ease. His hand traces fabrics that John figures he thought he'd never see again before Bruce pauses at the door. "Call me Bruce, John. We're living together, you don't have to call me Mr. Wayne."

  
He exits the room then, and just like that, a twelve-year-long infatuation gets blown open into a heavy want.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A set-up chapter, and for that, I apologize. The next part will be coming out soon -- this part took me a while to write out.

John insists he’s not going to act on any improper behavior regarding Mr. Wayne, because he doesn’t have the fucking time for it.

What he does have time for, apparently, is lots and lots of stolen glances and flares of heat in his lower stomach that he beats down with his good sense. Mostly.

When Alfred informs John that Bruce requests his presence in the cave, John assumes it’s some sort of ‘coronation’ ceremony, where John returns the cowl back to its rightful owner. He’s been expecting it since Bruce had arrived the week prior; the Batman could be anyone, after all, so why not the original? Bruce is a better fighter than he is -- it’s not a fact that John is trying to delude himself against.

He knows, with an unpleasant roll of his stomach, how much improvement a few months with the League of Shadows could bring. He knows that Bruce worked at least twice as hard for at least twice as long.

John makes his way down the lift into the cave. He knows his way around it with his eyes closed now. His fingertips drag against the cool stone with familiarity. He’d been in so much awe when he had seen it for the first time -- it seems a distant memory now, buried underneath months of masked vigilantism. John pushes himself away from the lift and heads down to the main station, where Bruce is fitting the cowl over his head. He seems tentative, his hands hesitating as he pulls it on, and he turns when John’s footsteps are no longer being overtaken by the sound of the waterfall.

John’s breath catches in his throat. He realizes that he’s seeing Bruce become Batman, and it twists around his heart and holds fast.

“Taking back the night?” John forces himself to joke, and Bruce’s lips twist upwards like it was actually funny. Be still, John’s fucking traitorous heart. He steps into Bruce’s space, noting the open case for the Batsuit with a nod of his head. “You planning on going out tonight?”

Bruce shakes his head as he pulls off the cowl, setting it on the table of the computer display. “Not tonight,” he says.

John leans against the desk, looking down at the cowl to give himself something to focus on that isn’t Bruce. His fingertips edge at the molded cheekbones nervously. “Alfred said you needed something?”

There’s a moment of quiet, tension lilting in the air between the draft and the soft sounds of water. Bruce clears his throat, and John finally looks at him. “How would you like to … join Batman?”

“What?” John asks dumbly, because he’s not quite sure what Bruce is asking, though the thumping in his heart is assuming something entirely thrilling.

Bruce keeps his gaze, but struggles to find the words. “Like … a partner.”

John finds himself smiling, just a hint of a smirk on his lips. “A sidekick?” he teases, and Bruce rolls his eyes. The smile that doesn’t reach his lips still make it to his eyes.

“An apprentice,” Bruce counters.

John had been hoping (hope could be cruel, could hurt, he remembers), his stomach restless and twisting, that he could join the Batman. He had been hoping that he could still be useful in the way that being Batman allowed him to be. He nods too fast, not caring how eager he looks, and a smile blooms across Bruce’s lips.

Bruce stands, motioning to the open training space across from the waterfall. “Show me what you can do,” he says, and John grins.

Twenty minutes later, John is on his back, trying to suck in breath as efficiently as he can without hyperventilating. He can feel his arms ache, heavy and useless by his sides, and he wishes he could will them into moving so that he can wipe his sweaty forehead. His head rolls over to the side, and he’s at least comforted by the fact that Bruce is breathing hard, too.

“Not bad,” Bruce says, and he can tell that Bruce means it. Something warm lights up in his chest at the praise, and John pushes himself into a sitting position. “You’re sloppy, though. Predictable.”

John frowns, and Bruce gives him an encouraging smile. “Nothing we can’t fix. You’re fast. You can use that to your advantage,” he continues.

“Faster than you?” John tests, grinning.

Bruce rolls his eyes, straightening and stepping closer to John. He extends a hand for him to take. “No,” he answers shortly. Once John is on his legs, as shaky as they are, Bruce gives him a guarded once-over. He looks like he’s contemplating something when his eyes meet John’s again. “But you could be.”

John nods quickly. “I want to do it. I want to be out there again.”

“How hard are you willing to train?” Bruce asks, but there’s something in the tone of his voice that tells John he already knows.

“Hard,” John answers, and it’s the right one. Bruce smiles and puts his hands behind his back.

“First lesson starts now,” he says. “Once you get a clean hit, the lesson ends. To make it easier, I won’t use my hands to deflect.”

John scoffs. “Aren’t you taking me a little lightly?”

Bruce smirks in response. “Am I?” he teases, and it pushes pride to the front of John’s chest.

It’s a brutal first five minutes, John swinging, his punches getting faster and more desperate. Bruce dodges them like he’s having fun, and when John looks into his eyes after he overthrows a punch and trips forward, he realizes that Bruce is. He’s playing with him.

John changes tactics then. He slips down off the side of the platform, landing with a splash in the dark water. He knows Bruce has no choice but to follow. If Bruce wants unpredictability, then John has a wealth of knowledge of a man who was exactly that.

He hides in the shadow of the platform. There’s another splash that signifies Bruce’s entrance, and John waits quietly. Bruce steps around the platform, testing the area, and once he gets in range, John strikes.

Bruce spins away from the hit just in time. John curses and jumps back into the shadow, regrouping. He can see the gears moving in Bruce’s head -- knows it’s tricky to use this style, one that Bruce is no doubt familiar with. John knows there will be questions, but he’ll answer them later. Now, he’s more focused on making a fist connect.

They circle each other for the next hour; John strikes when he thinks Bruce is unaware, Bruce dodges, John slinks back into the shadows. He’s getting tired, his limbs already heavy and growing heavier. He’s not as fast as he was when he started, and his punches are getting further and further away. Bruce has more patience than he accounted for, and John wonders if he’ll be able to outlast him.

Then, almost imperceptible in the dark, Bruce releases the tension in his shoulders. John realizes that this is his only chance -- the half of a second it will take for Bruce to come back to attention is all he needs to make a hit. John lunges out --

and Bruce pushes John’s fist away at the last moment, throwing the younger man off guard. He trips, twisting his body as he falls backwards, and Bruce’s hands shoot out, his fingers grasping his biceps. John winces -- the grip is strong, leaving pain shocking up his arms, but then Bruce rights him and lets go, looking apologetic.

“You cheated,” John says after a moment, both of them quietly trying to catch their breath. He rubs his hand over his arm. The dull ache is enough to tell him that there will be bruises in the morning.

Bruce looks him up and down, and John wonders what he’s thinking about. “So I did. Lesson’s over,” he states simply, making his way back up to the platform. John stands still for a moment, stunned, before quickly following afterwards.

“I thought it was going to be over once I got a good hit on you,” he counters, and Bruce lets out a soft chuckle.

“To be honest? I was going to end it when you gave up.” When, not if, John realizes, and that flare of pride flushes up his chest. He’s about to speak up in defense when Bruce turns back to look at him, pinning him down with that intense stare. “You did good. Whoever trained you knew what they were doing. Get some rest, we’re continuing tomorrow.”

Excitement curls into John’s stomach, his chest soaring at the praise, and he feels like he’s a kid again. He doesn’t particularly care at the moment, either -- all he does is stumble after Bruce up the stairs to the manor.

****  
  


* * *

****  
  


John wakes suddenly, his consciousness slamming back into his body as he jolts. He can feel a scream being strangled in his throat, and when he swallows, he can feel the muscles strain to relax. He sits up wearily, his back pressed against the headboard, and lets out a shaky sigh.

It’s only a nightmare. He had gotten them often right after the city had been freed from the terrorism at the hands of the League. It's been a few months since the last one, and he wonders if it has to do with Bruce's resurrection. He remembers the way Bruce gripped his arm when keeping him from hitting the ground, his fingers ghosting over the bruises.

John loves the way they ache under a more insistent touch, but that warming lust gives way to overwhelming sadness, vast as the desert. It coats his lungs, and he breathes shallowly, his hand gripping his thigh.

**  
**He pushes the thoughts of cold metal against his sternum away from his mind and lies back down on the bed. He doesn’t fall asleep for a long time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is disgustingly full of John/Bruce. Next chapter will be too. Then there will be a disgusting amount of John/Bane in the chapter after that, so strap on your garters, boys.

"Do you like horses?" Bruce asks suddenly.

 

The morning light drowns the dining room in gentle shadows and soft light, and John is still allowing his body to wake up. The bruises he'd received during training the night before still ache underneath his skin, and the memory of what happened afterwards forces an uneasy shiver down his spine. He blinks at Bruce at the question, fork full of scrambled eggs halfway to his mouth.

 

The eggs fall off his fork in the pause, and Bruce tries not to look too amused.

 

"Uh -- yeah, I guess. It’s not like I have extensive experience with them, so I couldn't say for sure," John answers.

 

Bruce nods contemplatively. There's another pause, and then -- "Would you like to join me to a race today?"

 

This time John chokes on his orange juice. Alfred pats him on the back sympathetically and hands him a napkin. "Uh," John manages as he wipes up the splatter.

 

"Just let me know before noon," Bruce says smoothly, finishing his breakfast and standing. "Alfred, I'm going out for a run. Can you get the car ready for later?"

 

"Certainly, Master Wayne," Alfred answers, and Bruce is out the patio door.

 

John sits, a bit dumbfounded, and gapes after Bruce. Alfred laughs kindly, patting John on the shoulder.

 

"If you were wondering, Master Blake, that was an offer for a date," Alfred says knowingly, and John feels his ears grow hot. "Ah, Master Robert, will it be an omelet or pancakes today?" Alfred asks the first member of the boys' orphanage to arrive for breakfast.

 

"Pancakes, please," Robbie answers sleepily. John turns to him, trying not to think about the clusterfuck of torrential emotion wrecking his mind.

 

"Did you remember to do your solar system project?" he asks Robbie, who rolls his eyes and slides in the seat a few chairs down.

 

"Yeah, ma, I finished it last night," Robbie answers, but there's a pleased glow about him. John hasn't forgotten that the kids crave parental attention. Still, he scoffs at the dig, because he's not above falling for the bait.

 

"I'm mom? Can't I be dad or something?" he asks.

 

"Mr. Wayne is dad," Robbie contests, and John feels his face grow hot now.

 

"No, Wayne is Cool Dad and John is Uptight Dad," Alex says when he enters the dining room. John gives him an incredulous look.

 

"How does it feel to betray me like this?" John asks, and Alex grins when he takes the seat next to Robbie.

 

"Feels pretty damn good," he answers, and John points at him.

 

"Language, Alex," he says, which just makes Alex grin wider. John lets out a snort of laughter. "I'm surrounded by sneaky little shits."

 

"Language, Master Blake. You wouldn't want to influence the children," Alfred says as he brings in Robbie's plate. "Master Alex, omelets or pancakes?"

 

John stares at Alfred before turning to Alex, gesturing wildly. Alex collapses into laughter but shakes his head. "I'll just share with Robbie," he answers.

 

Robbie purses his lips. "Like hell, Alexander," he shoots back, and Alfred gives John a look. John throws up his hands in defeat.

 

Twenty-seven tired and hungry boys later, John directs the flow of traffic to the school bus parked outside, shouting over chatter about socks and backpacks and God knows what else. Sammy's almost forgotten his poster board on mitochondria, and John has to take the stairs two at a time to grab it before the bus leaves.

 

It's his weekday routine, and it's exhausting -- but then he gets six hours to himself, and that's better than late-night calls to the precinct. He knows he's making a difference here, and it matters to him.

 

He sees Jessica, the other morning caretaker, to her car all while thanking her as usual, before he heads back into the manor. Bruce is back from his run, sweat clinging to his skin in a sheen, and he offers a smile to John. John easily responds with one in kind before ducking his eyes as he starts up the stairs.

 

"Have you decided yet?" Bruce asks from the bottom step.

 

John stops between steps and turns. "Thought I had until noon," he replies, cheeky grin tugging at his lips, and Bruce's smile slowly grows wider. "I'll go. I mean, I'd like to go."

 

Bruce nods, and John tries to figure out the expression on his face with little success. "I'll put out something you can wear," he simply says before he walks down the hallway.

 

John tries to beat down the warmth that clings to his chest, instead replacing it with vague irritation at Bruce's unnerving desire to always have the last word. It almost works.

  
  


* * *

 

 

"Bruce Wayne, as I live and breathe. This is the second time you've come back to life, isn't it?"

 

Bruce laughs, and John feels like he's stepped into a completely different world where he's the only one who can see the strain at the corners of the man's eyes when he does. There’s a beat where John looks around into the faces of the people around him and wonderingly realizes that he is that only one who sees through Bruce’s mask. It leaves him unsettled, pricks travelling up his spine, and he doesn’t know if he likes it yet.

 

There are lingering looks, and he's grateful for Bruce's hand on his shoulder. He knows he doesn't look too out of place -- Bruce's impeccable sense of style saw to that, donning him in ridiculously expensive summer elite wear. He hasn't worn a cashmere sweater in his life, and vaguely wonders if he can steal it to sleep in. It's just so fucking soft.

 

Still, he feels out of place, and sometimes that's enough.

 

"And who is your guest?" A woman purrs, placing her hand delicately on John's forearm. He has the good graces not to immediately shake her off, but can't find his voice quick enough to answer.

 

"John Blake. My apprentice, of sorts," Bruce answers in that charmingly cryptic way that everyone loves.

 

"Of Wayne Enterprises?" someone asks.

 

"Of the boys' home," Bruce corrects, and that earns John a few charitable chuckles. He swallows down the bite that's clawing up his throat -- he knows they think he's being adorably philanthropic, like it's some sort of pet project. He focuses on the hand on his shoulder instead, the way the fingers flex into the muscle, sending comfort and empathy in one motion. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I see an old friend that needs greeting.”

 

John looks around at the words as Bruce sweeps him away, gently guiding him with a palm pressed against his back. They move through the hall, Bruce nodding to more unfamiliar faces, and John manages to snag a flute of champagne from one of the waiters revolving around the room.

 

“Gordon,” Bruce greets as John takes a gulp of alcohol, causing him to choke and cough on the liquid. The older man turns to him, stunned into a look of concern, and John waves him off, swallowing the champagne and thumping his chest with his free hand.

 

“I’m glad to see that living in that manor hasn’t changed you much, son,” Gordon says cheerfully. When John looks up, he knows his eyes are a bit wide and wondering -- he hasn’t seen Gordon since he left the force, and seeing him now is like seeing him back in his glory days, when being Commissioner didn’t mean hiding in closed down restaurants or ducking into side streets. There’s nothing to suggest that Gordon is trying to fit in with the rest of the race track crowd, his clothes still unironed like they always are during work hours, but he looks healthier, stronger, less weary and tired. It brings a smile to John’s face, the first unguarded one he’s had since walking into the track hall, and he’s returned with one in kind.

 

“Sir,” John greets, holding out his hand, and Gordon gives it a firm shake, reaching out to pat his arm as well.

 

“You don’t need to call me ‘sir’ anymore, Blake. How are you? Holding up the fort?"

 

John blinks at the question, his heart suddenly beating fast -- of course Gordon would know, of course he found out --

 

"It must be busy work, taking care of all those boys," Gordon continues, and John lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. He's talking about the _orphanage_.

 

"Yeah, it's -- it's tough work, but it's rewarding," he answers, and Gordon nods in agreement.

 

"I figured. Only got one boy myself, but my daughter's a handful," the commissioner responds. "Though, it must be harder for you, what with the double shifts you have to pull."

 

John honestly just needs to give up on drinking the champagne, because he has a feeling if he doesn't, he will actually choke and die.

 

There’s a general movement, a shuffling out of the track hall towards the seats. Bruce nods, motioning a hand towards the hallway to the boxes, his attention on Gordon. “Care to join us, Commissioner?” he asks, and Gordon gives him a look.

 

“You’re acting as if I have a choice,” he says, but there’s a good-natured tone in his voice.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The box, as it's called, is bigger than John's old apartment. There's a bottle of champagne -- ridiculously expensive champagne, John guesses -- near the luxe armchairs, poised out towards the glass that protects the contents of the box from the weather. John does his best to avoid the alcohol, tempting as it is. He glances at Gordon, who looks just as uncomfortable there as he does.

 

A host -- a fucking _host_ , who refers to them as Mr. Wayne and esteemed guests, and John has to bite on his tongue to stop himself from laughing -- comes in to give them the information on the horses, as well as take orders for drinks. Nobody orders anything, so they're given sparkling water, and John ends up sitting in the middle armchair between Gordon and Bruce.

 

He absentmindedly picks up the clear ashtray on the side table. He's almost certain it's crystal, and he's even more certain that nobody would give a second glance if he stole it. He sets it back down, gaping.

 

By the time the race starts, John and Gordon have fallen into an easy-going and comfortable conversation. Most of it revolves around the various officers at the GCPD, but Gordon is also interested to hear about the orphanage.

 

"I have to admit, I've been checking up on it every once in a while. Alfred gives me updates," Gordon says, looking a bit guilty. John is a bit surprised -- he hadn't realized that Gordon had even been keeping tabs on it. At John's expression, the commissioner continues. "It isn't because I think you need to be monitored or baby sat or anything. It's just nice to know how things are going in your life."

 

John just gives him a bright grin, because sometimes, words aren't enough to express the depth of gratitude he feels.

 

He startles when a man comes into the box, hovering behind the seats. “Phone for you, Mr. Wayne,” the attendant says, and Bruce nods.

 

When Bruce excuses himself from the box to take the call, John realizes that the invitation to the race isn’t a date. John had felt disconnected from the world as Batman -- there’s a self-imposed loneliness that comes with wearing the suit, one that makes a man believe that he has to separate himself from the people he cares about. The Batman is a symbol, not a person; John had taken the words to heart, and had allowed them to keep him moving. He had spent eight tireless, unforgiving months tracking down the criminals who had escaped during the Blackgate breakout. He knows what it feels like to be on the brink of surrender, what it feels like to ride that edge of giving up because his muscles just wouldn’t move anymore, and he had pushed past it and endured.

 

He knows what it feels like to think that the Batman matters more than his own life does, and how to distance yourself from the people who would tell you otherwise. Bruce knows what it feels like, too, and he had come back to show him that he couldn’t think that way anymore.

 

John’s throat gets tight and choked, and he ducks his head. It’s not a date -- it’s a saving grace, a way to show John that he’s not going to be alone in the fight anymore. Perhaps the Batman was never meant to be a lone figure, and maybe it’s taken Bruce thirteen years to figure that out. Maybe it just took one ex-cop to go out there and kill parts of himself every day in that damn suit and symbol for Bruce to realize it.

 

Gordon keeps going on about his daughter, who is proving to be a firecracker and more than he’s going to be able to handle when she gets older, and John wonders if the man’s noticed the change in atmosphere. He doesn’t have to wait long for his answer; the commissioner puts his hand on John’s back, comforting and grounding, just to let him know he’s there. It helps. God, does it help. He remembers eating doughnuts in Gordon’s hospital room late at night, discussing cases that were going unsolved right before the occupation, and how Gordon had given him a steely look and told him to go home and get a good night’s rest. He thinks about how he’d viewed Gordon as a father -- how he still does.

 

Gordon cares about the man behind the mask. He always has. It makes John feel like it’s alright for him to care about the man behind the mask, too.

 

When Bruce comes back and takes his seat, he gives John a searching look, one that makes John’s chest feel too tight again. John returns his look with a small smile, barely there but enough to let Bruce know, and the smile that the older man responds with is enough to make breathing an impossible thing.

 

“So, I haven’t heard from the Batman in a while,” Gordon says under his breath, his eyes back on the racetrack. John can see Bruce’s lips twitch upwards. “Wonder how he’s doing. We could still use him out on the streets.”

 

“I’m sure he’s doing fine,” Bruce answers easily. “In fact, there are some rumors that he’s taken on a protege.”

 

“A sidekick?” Gordon turns now, shock creasing into his face, and John lets out a snort of laughter.

 

Bruce gives them both a steady, hard look. “An apprentice,” John quickly responds, a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. The man relaxes under his touch, and John gives him a light pat for good measure.

 

Gordon’s quiet for a moment before he slowly nods, smiling. “He could damn well use one.”

 

“Yeah, he damn well could,” John parrots, grinning, and Bruce lets out a soft scoff. He doesn’t argue, though, so John considers it a win.

 

Gordon takes control of the conversation through the prize delegation, talking quickly about various cases that have the force concerned. The biggest concern is the release of several key fighters in the occupation; due to their citizenship, many of them had been deported back to their native countries. It’s a situation that John had tabs on, but wasn’t too concerned about -- according to Gordon, however, in the past month, they had been reported missing.

 

“Batman did a great job rounding up the escaped prisoners,” Gordon says. John’s heart soars at the praise, even with the gravity of the conversation. “But there’s still work to be done, and we sure as hell could use all the help we can get.”

 

“If we hear anything, we’ll let you know,” Bruce answers, and Gordon nods. John knows the words promise more than intel, and he supposes Gordon is well-aware, since he doesn’t press.

 

As they say their goodbyes, Bruce and Gordon step to the side to talk privately. John doesn’t bother to listen in -- he knows both men well enough to know they’re talking about him, and he’d rather not know what they’re saying. When they return, Bruce’s hand finds its way to his back again, and John tries hard not to focus on it. He shakes Gordon’s hand, and the commissioner gives him a tired but proud smile.

 

“If Batman’s new apprentice is anything like you, son, he’ll be one hell of a hero,” Gordon says. It leaves John with an overwhelming warmth flooding through his ribcage, and drives determination into his bones. “Thanks for inviting me out, Wayne. Next time, a call will do fine. All this,” Gordon waves a hand at the unfamiliar decadence of the box, “isn’t my idea of a fun day out.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bruce answers. “We’ll be in touch.”

 

Gordon nods. “I hope so.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

John is resigned to go back to the manor, the creeping sensation under his skin that alerts his need to check up on the boys. He doesn’t like leaving them alone for long stretches of time -- especially not with Alfred, who deserves better than thirty boys screaming and running around the house. Poor Alfred. He lets out a soft sigh as he gets into Bruce’s car, and it takes him a few minutes of driving before he realizes that they aren’t heading back.

 

“Where are we going?” John asks, peering out the window to try and guess their direction.

 

Bruce glances at him, an eyebrow raising. “Dinner. Did you think I was going to take you out and not feed you?” he jokes lightly.

 

“I -- didn’t realize it was a date,” John answers dumbly. Perhaps Alfred was right after all.

 

Bruce just gives him that guarded smile, like he knows something John doesn’t. Which, granted, he does, but that doesn’t make it any easier or less irritating. Still, the hopeful warmth in his chest is enough to overwhelm any annoyance he feels, so John just leans back into his seat and hides his smile from Bruce by staring out of the window.

  
  


* * *

 

 

Dinner is -- nice. Normal. Well, about as normal as dinner with Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, can get. They don’t talk about Gordon, or Batman, or training. They talk about the boys -- well, John talks about the boys, and Bruce attentively listens. John talks about things Alfred has done over the past year, including taking frequent trips to France to laze around the streets of Paris ( _“I know,” Bruce says, sipping his wine, and John knows he’s making the most ridiculous expression of dawning realization because Bruce flashes him the most devious smile_ ) and making the worst waffles ever. John talks about Gotham, or at least starts to, before Bruce cuts in.

 

“I kept tabs on Gotham,” he interrupts, “I want to know more about you.”

 

This stuns John for a moment, the muted sounds of the voices of fellow diners filling in the first real silence between them since they sat down. “Like what?” he finally asks. “I was born and raised in Gotham, I’m a scorpio, and I don’t really like long walks on the beach -- “

 

“Did you date anyone after the occupation?” It’s a bold, forward question, and John’s heart is going a million miles per hour. When he looks across the table at Bruce, he’s a bit let down that the older man is as perfectly put together as always, lips slipped into that guarded smile that John still struggles to decipher.

 

“Not really any time between putting away bad guys and taking care of the boys,” John answers nervously. His fingers go to playing with edge of his napkin, just so they’re busy enough that he won’t feel compelled to chew on his nails.

 

“And before?” Bruce presses, and John’s heart stops.

 

He clings to the mask he’s made for himself, trying to keep it together well enough so that Bruce can’t see the way he digs his fingers into his thigh, how his body tenses up. It’s a moment of panic -- and then he reminds himself that nobody knows, nobody ever found out, he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder all the fucking time for that mob that will never come. John forces himself to look up at Bruce, a wry smile on his face. “Hey, I’d like to think that I’m fairly desirable as a boyfriend,” he jokes.

 

He thinks Bruce buys it. “Can’t argue with you there,” the man responds, and John is shocked out of the dredges of fear with a sharp burst of laughter that he can’t contain. Bruce stares at him, a bit surprised at the sudden noise, before a smile draws on his face and he laughs, too.

  
  


* * *

 

 

“Whiskey?” Bruce asks, holding up the decanter.

 

It’s late -- John should be in bed already, really, but somehow he had allowed Bruce to lead him to the sitting room once they arrived back at the manor rather than immediately excusing himself to go to bed. Maybe it was the way that Bruce gave him an enticing look that promised more than John had the liberty to take. Maybe John was still riding the high of hope that Bruce seemed to exude. Either way, he’s standing in the sitting room, agreeing to a drink, and Bruce looks ridiculously attractive in the dim lighting. He tries not to stare at Bruce’s fingers as he’s handed the glass, but John isn’t sure it works.

 

“Thank you,” John says. It’s quiet in the sitting room, just the sound of the clock ticking. He feels like Bruce can hear the way his breath hitches whenever he comes near, or the way his heart jumps like he’s fucking sixteen years old. He hates it, and he tries to chase the insecurity with a heavy drink of the alcohol.

 

Bruce finishes pouring his glass and takes a small sip. “For the drink?” he asks, and John shakes his head, looking at his hands.

 

“For -- everything,” he admits. He wonders if he isn’t still sixteen, just a teenager who’s dumbstruck by Bruce Wayne and who can’t find a way to say what he means without wanting to tear his own chest open.

 

When he brings his head back up and looks Bruce in the eye, he sees the faintest glimmer of recognition, like Bruce is trying to recall a memory he doesn’t quite have. It brings that surge of hope buzzing back into his body.

 

“You’re welcome,” Bruce finally answers, and John feels the air leave his lungs in one fell swoop. There’s a silence between them, a tension that lingers in the air that promises everything, and then Bruce is taking a step towards him. John wants to move, wants to break the silence and go up to his room and forget about the evening, about the feelings that are trying to crawl out of his throat and form into words he doesn’t mean.

 

Instead, his legs fail him, and Bruce takes the drink from his hand and sets it aside.

 

"I'm ... going to kiss you now," Bruce says, a bit stilted. John can hardly think when the older man takes another step forward.

 

"Didn't realize you were such a romantic, Bruce," John deadpans, mind working on auto-pilot, the joke dying out in his throat when Bruce's lips twitch upwards. The space between them ceases to exist, and Bruce gently presses their lips together.

 

It's just contact until Bruce's hand moves to rest on John's neck. John lets out a soft sigh at the touch, and Bruce takes it as an affirmation. He pushes further, fingers curling into John's skin, and John grabs Bruce's lapel as the kiss deepens. There are teeth against his lower lip, and when John opens his mouth, it gets hotter, more insistent.

 

John pulls away first, eyes glazed over. "I don't usually kiss on the first date," he says, and when he finally meets Bruce's eyes, they're just as dark.

 

"I wish I could say the same," Bruce jokes lightly, though his eyes are staring at John's lips, which feel full and warm. John laughs, and Bruce's voice drops an octave, rough and raw. "Oh -- fuck," he murmurs, and the sound goes straight to the pool of heat in John's lower stomach.

 

There's the sound of muffled footsteps behind the sitting room entrance, and they immediately pull away. John's hand moves to his hip on instinct -- there's no gun there, but then he takes a few quick, soundless steps to the side table. He reaches under and pulls out the hidden gun. Bruce gives him a look, and John knows what he's mouthing: _No guns_. The words are returned with John's own steely resolve -- he's still an ex-cop, and he knows the power a gun could have. He pops out the magazine quietly, hoping the click isn't louder than the hushed whispering in the other room, and shows Bruce that it's empty. Hesitant, Bruce sighs finally and motions to the entrance. John nods, gun poised but not raised, and watches as Bruce approaches the door.

 

He throws the door open, and John's gun is up -- then immediately dropped to his side when he sees the group of boys looking guilty as all hell. "Oh my fu -- what are you doing up?" he demands.

 

"We could ask you two the same thing," Alex says, waggling a finger. John quickly slides the gun into the back of his waistband; the kids really don't need to see him waving guns around. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

 

Bruce throws John an amused look, and John struggles not to rub his temples.

 

"Bed. **_Now_**." John points up the stairs.

 

"Listen to your father now, children," Bruce adds, and John feels utterly betrayed.

 

The boys grumble, but follow orders regardless. Bruce steps towards John and earns a few oooohs from the group, which quickly get cut off by John's glare. He waits until the children are all up the stairs before he turns to Bruce. The older man looks different -- open, perhaps. John swallows thickly, the illusion of something that he knows he can’t ask for broken, and he finds that the feeling in his chest is closer to relief than disappointment. "You too, Mr. Wayne," John says.

 

"Did you at least want to stay for breakfast?" Bruce asks, smiling slyly.

 

It’s an invitation. John’s not sure if he can handle many more invitations. He presses past Bruce, heading out the door and up the stairs. "I'll see you in the morning, Mr. Wayne," John says as he quickly ascends.

 

"You can call me Bruce!" The older man calls after him.

 

"I know," John answers, and Bruce's pleased chuckle follows after him.


End file.
